


Beat the Heat

by alexis (of_too_minds)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Public Masturbation, Swearing, title is a really bad pun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-11 12:54:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1173312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/of_too_minds/pseuds/alexis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hunting is hot and sweaty work. Dean finds a way to cool off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beat the Heat

**Author's Note:**

> In case anyone is interested… “Spriggans are dour and ugly and grotesque in shape. Although quite small, they have the ability to inflate themselves into monstrous forms which has led humans to believe them to be the ghosts of old giants. Apart from their useful function as guardians of hill treasure, spriggans are an infamous band of villains, skilled thieves, thoroughly destructive and often dangerous.” Excerpt from Fairies by Brian Froud and Alan Lee.

“Shit!” Dean cursed aloud as a tree branch whipped him across the face. Even worse than the smack of prickly pine needles was the sting of sweat in his eyes. Dean cursed again but kept running, dodging trees and rocks in an effort to keep pace with the swiftly fleeing creature he was hunting. The spriggan had a head start on him and was moving fast, heading deeper and deeper into the woods. Dean risked a glance behind him. The forestry trunk road where he’d parked his beloved car was already out of sight behind him and getting further and further away with every stride. Dean cursed again and pushed himself harder, hoping to catch up with the creature before he got himself hopelessly lost. He was  _so_  not a Boy Scout. Not even close.

 

‘So why am I always the one tracking beasties through the woods?’ he grumbled as he futilely swung his hands at the cloud of mites and black flies and mosquitoes and god knows what else buzzing around his head.

 

The Midwest was sweltering under a heat wave hot enough to give Hell some competition. The air was heavy and humid and thick enough to swallow. He was soaked in sweat, clothes clinging wetly to his body. Even his underwear felt damp and that was just plain wrong. Dean promised himself a long cold shower as soon as he sent this bastard back to hell, and he wasn’t coming out until he was as wrinkled and pruney as somebody’s grandma. Sammy could just suck it up and deal.  _He_  wasn’t the one sweating his ass off here in the backwoods of beyond. Oh no, Sammy was back in town doing research.

 

‘More like sitting on his ass drinking cold beer in the comfort of a cool, air conditioned diner,’ Dean thought snidely as he pounded after his elusive prey.

 

A tree root chose that moment to rudely throw itself into Dean’s path, snagging the toe of his boot. Dean promptly measured his length on the ground, hitting dirt hard enough to force the breath from his lungs. Gravity was a bitch that way.

 

He wheezed and gasped for air, empty lungs cramping painfully. A seeming eternity passed before his traitorous body started to cooperate again, lungs inhaling and exhaling in the proper sequence. Dean rolled over onto his back and stared blearily at the azure sky through the canopy of leaves. The sun was a copper disc so bright it hurt the eyes. He groaned and flung his arm over his face, hiding his face in the bend of his elbow. Somewhere in the trees, a squirrel jeered in amusement. Dean raised his middle finger in its general direction.

 

“That’s it,” he announced to no one in particular, “I’m done.”

 

At least he’d held onto his gun when he fell. Small consolation for losing the spriggan. Dean sighed and pounded the ground beside him in frustration. Three people had already gone missing this summer, lured off the hiking trails by the creature, never to be heard from again. If someone else got hurt because he was too clumsy to catch the damn thing… Dean scowled at the blatant self-pity colouring his thoughts and forced the guilt aside. Emo brooding was Sammy’s shtick, not his.

 

It was sheer luck he’d even spotted the spriggan. Too restless to sit still for long, he’d volunteered to check out the missing hikers’ last known location with the EMF while Sammy dug through the local archives. He hadn’t gone more than 100 feet down the trail when the creature suddenly appeared right in front of him. It realized its mistake the second Dean went for his gun and took off into the trees with the hunter hard on its heels.

 

At least he knew what it was now and, more importantly, how to banish it. They’d get it tonight.

 

Dean filled lungs used to the grime and exhaust of urban living with fresh mountain air and listened as the rapid thundering of his heart gradually settled back into a steady rhythm. A foolhardy mosquito landed on his arm looking for lunch. He swatted at it in irritation. A rock poked him in the lower back making him squirm uncomfortably. He heaved a heavy sigh. Getting back to nature was _not_  his idea of a good time.

 

He briefly considered shooting the root that tripped him but decided that would be overkill and settled for kicking it instead. Very hard. A man had his pride, after all.

                                                                                                         

A small breeze kicked up, cooling the sweat on Dean’s face. He licked parched lips. What he wouldn’t give for a cold beer right now. Hell, even a cold drink of water would do.

 

As if on cue, his ears picked up the welcome sound of running water. Dean propped himself up on his elbows and studied the underbrush around him. A creek burbled away to itself about a dozen feet away. Dean grinned. A quick dip sounded like the Best Idea Ever right now.

 

He hurriedly stripped out of his t-shirt and then yanked off his heavy boots, too impatient to take the time to undo the laces. Toeing out of his socks, he glanced around his location. The forest was still and quiet. Not a soul was in sight (noncorporeal or otherwise). Shrugging nonchalantly, he stripped out of his jeans. So what if another hiker did catch sight of him in the buff? Not like he had anything to be ashamed about.

 

Dean dropped his clothes in a messy pile next to the creek, leaving his gun within easy reach on top. He stepped into the water and moaned in appreciation. It was ice cold manna to his overheated skin. Crouching down, he cupped his hands and took a tentative sip. The water tasted delicious, crisp and cold and obviously fed from a spring deep in the mountains somewhere. Dean gulped it down greedily, filling his belly and then splashing water the length of his body, glorying in the cool sensation trickling over his skin and washing away the stale sweat.

 

The creek wandered lazily through the little clearing he’d found himself in, curling back on itself at one point to form a deep pool at the base of an old, gnarled pine tree. Dean waded over and found to his delight that the water nearly reached his waist. His balls tightened at the sudden coldness lapping at the sensitive sack. It felt heavenly – his boys had gotten uncomfortably hot and squished inside his heavy denim jeans. This heat wave was almost enough to make him rethink his policy on shorts. Dean pictured himself wearing surfer shorts and flip-flops and pulled a face. Then again, maybe not.

 

Dean dunked his head under water, surfacing only when his lungs demanded air. Finding a convenient root nearly as thick around as his thigh to lean against, he tipped his head back and let himself float. A lone cloud drifted across the face of the sun. The breeze stirred again, playing with the wet strands of his hair. It was surprisingly quiet and peaceful. No wail of police sirens, no drone of lawn mowers or jack hammers, no loud-mouthed brats whining for a treat. Just a lone bird singing to itself. Dean was starting to understand why people left the comforts of civilization to go “commune with nature.” He closed his eyes and let himself enjoy the stolen moment. By the time he returned, Sammy would have dug up some obscure local legend that would give them a lead on where to find the spriggan’s lair. They’d come back tonight and banish it. The job would be done and they could move on, hopefully to somewhere not in the middle of a heat wave. Like Alaska.

 

Dean idly dribbled water over his upper body. One hand bushed his pecs, causing his nipples to crinkle into tight little buds, swollen with blood. He tugged at it, groaning in pained pleasure. His other hand drifted lazily down his body, pausing to dip into the hollow of his navel. Beneath the surface of the water, his cock started to harden.

 

Dean smirked to himself. ‘Why not? It’s not like there’s anyone around to complain about me hogging the bathroom.’

 

Settling himself more securely against the tree root at his back, Dean let his right hand brush teasingly against the head of his cock. It twitched against his hand, the head bobbing like a puppy begging for a pat. Dean laughed at the mental image. He knew he was an animal in bed but that was taking it a bit far!

 

Curling his fingers around the base of the shaft, Dean started to slowly pump his cock, tugging and coaxing it into full arousal. It pulsed in his hand, swollen with blood and hot to the touch even in the cool water. He stroked the length gently, tracing the big vein on the underside in teasing little touches that sent his arousal soaring. His left hand toyed with his nipples, pinching and pulling on the firm peaks. Dean slowly upped the pace of his strokes, palm curling up over the silky head on each upstroke. He settled into a steady rhythm, the soft skin shifting and stretching in his grip as he worked the hard shaft. His left hand slowly drifted down his tight chest and abs to cup his lightly furred sack. He rolled the weight of it in his hand, feeling the drawn-up balls heavy with seed shift inside the skin. Tugging on the sack made him shudder, teeth sinking into his plump lower lip in a futile effort to hold back his groans. An uncontrolled buck of his hips forced his cock harder into his fist, making him crave more.

 

Digging his heels into the rocky creek bed for purchase, he began to fuck his fist in earnest. The muscles in his arm and belly stood out in sharp relief as he stripped his cock in counterpoint to the pumping of his hips. His strokes became stronger and harder and rougher, his hand gliding on the viscous precum that bubbled in a continuous stream from the tip.

 

Orgasm hovered just out of reach, so close Dean could practically taste it. His body began to shake. Desperate to cum, he tightened his fist to the point of pain, hand stripping his cock in a frantic pace. His left hand tugged sharply one more time on his balls before moving back to massage the strip of skin behind his sack. Pleasure shot down his cock and up his spine, an undeniable wave of heat that shorted out his brain. A few more desperate strokes and his orgasm roared through him hard enough to curl his toes and bow his spine.

 

“Ohhhh fuuuuck yeah,” Dean hissed, mouth falling open in debauchery as he shattered, cum painting his chest and belly in glistening white stripes. He milked the dregs from his spent cock and then swirled his messy hand in the water. The current obligingly carried his sticky spunk away, leaving him cool and refreshed.

 

He slumped bonelessly against the tree root at his back, tipping his head back and closing his eyes, feeling utterly spent. Nothing beat that for stress relief!

 

The squirrel, or one of his friends, started chittering and jabbering, no doubt scolding Dean for his public display of lewd behaviour.

 

“Pfft,” Dean grunted with a lazy wave of one hand.  “You’re just jealous you can’t do that.” He pulled a face at the traumatizing mental image that comment produced. “Oh shit, now I have to scrub out my brain with bleach!” he moaned.

 

The breeze picked up, making his damp skin pebble. Dean shivered, suddenly aware of just how  _cold_  a mountain-fed creek was. He hustled out of the creek, drying himself off with his t-shirt. The soft cotton felt delicious against his sensitized skin. Pulling jeans on over damp legs required effort and more than a little swearing. The squirrel started jeering at the sight of Dean’s ass bobbing as he hopped around on one leg.

 

“I have a gun you know,” he threatened. The infuriating squirrel paid him no mind. Dean swore he saw a pinecone lobbed his way.

 

He finally managed to get the pants on his legs and his feet in his boots but opted to go shirtless, draping the damp fabric over one shoulder instead. He shot a dirty look at what he hoped was the squirrel’s tree and then sauntered back towards the car, mind already on the cold beer Sammy owed him for sweating his ass off in this heat.

 

 

END

 


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